


Shaping Truth

by Jarakrisafis



Series: Isana [9]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Frame Narrative, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:34:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23433253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: Varric's been told he'd have made a good Shaper. He's not so sure. Stone is a lot more permanent than ink. With a pen, the truth can be whatever he wants it to be.
Series: Isana [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568344





	1. A Missed Visit

"No way have you met the Heroes of Ferelden." Garrett is all but bouncing on the edge of his chair, a disturbingly fanatical light in his eyes. Obsessed fanboy much?

"And why not?" I return mildly. "I invited them for tea, we talked over a few things, then we parted ways."

"I'm calling dragon dung on that." Garrett says, fingers tapping on the table. "Come on dwarf, hand over the real story."

"Long version it is then." To give Hawke some credit, he has got pretty good at knowing when I'm pulling one over on him. It'd be impressive if it wasn't me he'd learnt to read. I sit back, slouching down into my chair a little more. If I'm going to tell this I want to be comfortable.

"Varric sighs as the Carta thug approaches his table at the back of the Hanged Man and leans forward over the back of a chair directly across from him. Haven't they got better things to do with their time? Kirkwall is his territory. He won't stop them from operating, but even House Cadash, who pretty much own all the smaller carta houses know full well that threatening him is a bad plan - hard to run a smuggling business when no merchants will take your goods.

'Deshyr Tethras?' Someone asks and well, first time for everything, been a while since anyone got his title right. That is, according to the surface Assembly known as the Merchant Guild who stole the title from the Orzammar deep lords as a way of snubbing them yet trying to maintain their sense of rank and importance. Varric couldn't really care less. Deep Lords, Guild, Carta, they're all a load of assholes ready to stab each other in the back, makes sense they all use the same title really.

Still, he stares, words momentarily leaving him as his eyes flicker from the brand tattooed on one cheek and tries to reconcile it with the accent that still holds a trace of high class Orzammar. He has to wonder what this one did to warrant being kicked out. There's something not quite right, but he can't quite put his finger on what it is. He's dressed to match the brand on his cheek, though perhaps the armour is a little more well cared for than the usual scum that comes looking for him. The mace Varric can just see hanging at his side, for all the handle is plainly wrapped, is good quality veridium and what he can see of the shield slung over his back shows the same amount of care. He'd think he's from the Merchant Guild, yet he has no marking to show he's Guild. And the other option is that he's Carta and the thugs round here don't normally bother with keeping their equipment in good shape, if something breaks they just take what they need from the next body that ends up in their path.

'And if I am?' Varric finally replies, sitting back in his chair, a picture of relaxation if one doesn't know that he's closer to being able to reach for Bianca from here. And if one closes the door they can see just how much he's tested and trained to be able to pull her into a firing position from here and nail both dwarven and human height targets. One can never know just when one will need to defend oneself. He can fire from fully prone too. One assassin in his bedroom was quite enough to make him practice that until he could grasp Bianca in the dark and fire without having to grope around. And Hawke thinks he's crazy for always making sure she's in the same spot beside his bedroll with a bolt ready to go. Ha, wait till he wakes up with an assassin barely a foot away and he'll change his tune.

The thugs gaze doesn't waver, nor does his stance. Not quite looming over the back of the chair he's braced his arms on, intimidating without having to do anything other than be present. 'I was... informed, that you are the best person to get information from in this town.'

'That depends entirely on what sort of information you're looking for?' Varric leaves the statement open, inviting enlightenment. He's not a mind reader, no matter what some people might think. Even his spy network doesn't always ferret out all the clues.

'An old friend, goes by the name of Anders.'

Shit.

'Can't say I've heard of him, but I can keep my eyes open if you want to leave me a name so I can contact you.' He'll need to contact Hawke as soon as he can, let him know that the Carta is after Anders. Though he can't think of anything the mage has done to upset them, he's even seen a few dwarves in there being patched up. He shifts position, casually dangling one arm over the side of his chair, only to freeze when his hand meets only empty air. His heart jumps as he tries not to show that anything is amiss.

'If you're looking for your weapon, my light fingered friend has it.' The thug smiles, and it's not quite a smirk, but close enough that Varric can feel anger curling in his gut in response. Fucking nug humper thinks he's won just because he's got a sneaky friend.

Admittedly he has won, Varric's sneaky friends are all well away from here and not due back till the evening, his body would be well and truly cooled by then.

'Almost wish I could keep her too, she's a beauty.' The second dwarf is leaning against the wall just behind Varric and it takes all his willpower to make the turn to get him in line of sight a casual shift rather than a startled jump at the sudden voice despite just being told he was somewhere in the room. That trick is much more fun when he does it.

He's also branded, but his accent is much more in line with what Varric expects from a Carta member, a rough burr that speaks of a dust town upbringing. He has a crossbow of his own slung over his shoulders, two long knives at his belt and he's cradling Bianca in his arms as he runs his fingers over the locking mechanism with an appreciative eye.

It's the scar that runs down one cheek that jogs Varric's memory and he has a sudden suspicion that he knows who his visitors are. At least, if he's right he won't need to tell Hawke that the Carta are looking for Anders, just the healer's actual bosses. He's not sure that's any better to be fair.

'Commander Brosca and Constable Aeducan.'

“Right in one.” Brosca says as he holds Bianca out with a last wistful look. 'So, are you sure you haven't seen our wayward warden?'

Well shit, Varric thinks as he takes his crossbow back. This is going to take some damned quick talking."

"They were right fucking here!!!" Garrett says when it becomes clear I'm not going to continue. "And you didn't introduce me!"

"You were halfway up a mountain gallivanting around with Daisy." I'm not getting the blame for his bad timing.

"Still, you could have told me when I got back."

What did I say: obsessed fanboy... "They got me to talk and then went to see Blondie, made sure he wasn't all demonised and then headed back out well before evening. What was I meant to say, 'oh hey, do you mind waiting to meet a random Ferelden I know who thinks you're both awesome?'"

Garrett pouts. "Still could'a told me."


	2. An Insight into Why Varric Hates Orzammar

"Well, now you know my father is..."

"An asshole?" Cadash says from where he's leaning back, boots up on the table. It's a good thing only Cassandra is here, she's got her own boots up. Josephine, Leliana and Madam de Fer would all have words to say if they saw.

Dorian looks like he wishes to continue his search for a different synonym before giving up and just going with the Inquisitors offering. "So, now we know my father is an asshole, anyone else have any childhood stories they want to share? Varric? You usually have a story for all occasions."

I hum. "Very well."

"Another day, another rant. 'You'd love it darling.' His mother says and Varric doesn't roll his eyes. It's bloody hard work not to though. 'The columns, all carved, and the great statues of the Paragons...' He gets up, taking the empty pitcher with him and goes to refill it. He does roll his eyes as soon as his back is turned to his mother as she continues to drone on about the wonders of Orzammar and everything he's missing having been born on the surface. Oh woe is him. How can he possibly survive here?

To put it bluntly, Varric doesn't want to go to Orzammar. Ever. He couldn't give a nug shite about Orzammar.

It's all mother talks about. Orzammar this, Orzammar that, Orzammar is the greatest. As if there's no life to be had anywhere else. Even his brother and cousins seem to talk like it's the best place to be. How would he know, not like he's been there to see these huge statues and glowing lava rivers and wondrous gem studded mosaics. And the fashion there, fine woven mail from filigree wire, like sheer silk but made from metal, with stones and engraved plates decorating it. And leather from deepstalkers and drakes dyed to hues that reflect the lava light in burnished colours that just can't be found anywhere else. And don't forget the food and wine, so much better than the surfaces attempts at making palatable food.

Fuck that.

He was born in Kirkwall. Sure there's no gem studded walls here, he wears cotton and wool, and the food is indeed pretty bad, but he knows everywhere there is to go, because he's a nosy bugger who can pull off street urchin quite successfully. And who pays attention to a scrawny young messenger? Especially a young dwarf who hunches in on himself and speaks slowly. Nobody. He probably knows far more than any of the gangs round here, Coterie, Carta and Merchant Guild combined would like him to know. Thing is though, he's going to save it all up and one day, he'll use all the little bits of blackmail he has to make his own place here. (And he'll be wearing surface silk embroidered with gold thread when he's done).

That's if mother ever accepts that Orzammar is a long lost dream and she's never going back to her glorious stone filled halls and Bartrand stops pandering to her every whim. Maker forbid (and he has to remember not to curse by the Maker at home, he can't imagine how much trouble that would cause) but his brother's a pushover who can't think for himself in anything other than what might happen tomorrow. Next week, next month and further on are vague concepts he won't be thinking of.

Varric is.

He's got a lot of plans. Some of them are, he can admit, potentially quite dangerous. Isn't it a good thing he can always find something to say to throw people off. Because he's started setting some of his plans in motion. Mother would bemoan that he's not working to return them to Orzammar. Bartrand would complain because he didn't let him know what he was doing first. His cousins will complain because he's the youngest and shouldn't be doing things that could upset their family status when they're only just starting out on the surface.

That's a load of nugshite as far as Varric's concerned, he's sixteen, plus they were here for a few years before he was even concieved, that means it's nearly been a full score years since they were exiled, there's no 'only just setting up' in his calculation. They've been here long enough they should already be established.

The Merchant Guild accepted them because they were Nobles and still had connections. Mother's nearly ruined that welcome with her moaning and wailing about what was and should be instead of getting off her backside and actually doing something about it. Varric's going to salvage that welcome and use it to make his name on the surface. What does being Noble mean here? Hanging onto that information like it's a lifeline won't help you when somebody tries to stick a knife in you because you said the wrong thing. The surface has it's own rules. It has it's own caste system and Varric means to be at the top and that means working for it.

He's heard the rumours, watched the flow of information and trade and he can see where things are heading. Orzammar has a caste system because there's no place to go but to the surface if you don't like it. And teach your children that's the surface is a bad thing and they stay where they are because it has to be better. Well, he's living on the surface and it aint so bad. Problem is, he's not alone. There's a lot of displaced dwarves here. And there's nothing holding them back. No huge threat keeping them in place. If the Guild doesn't wise up, the so called Kalna who want to ride along on the remains of being Nobles, Warriors and Mechants from Orzammar are going to be overwhelmed by the rising tide of dwarves who have nothing to stop them from claiming their own place.

'... And this isn't real wine. In Orzammar they make far better brews than this.' He nods where expected and doesn't say a word. Of course it's not as good, nothing here is ever as good. He could manage to buy actual brews from Orzammar and they'd not be right because she's drinking them under the wide open sky.

No. Orzammar can go fuck itself.

Varric's a surface dwarf and he's going to be remembered as a surface dwarf. No statue necessary."

"Really, you referred to yourself in the third person?" Cadash asks into the silence.

I shrug, a smirk curving the edges of my mouth up. "It's called Illeism and it's a perfectly acceptable literary technique."

"If you say so." He says, and I have to wonder if he actually knows what those words mean or if he's humouring me. He reaches over and nudges Dorian. "Least now you know you're not the only one with a shit parent."

Dorian gives Cadash a bland look, but I can pick up on the hint of a smile underneath it, hidden under the layers of Tevinter bred posturing. "Yes. Thank you. I'm so glad to not be alone anymore."


	3. How Dwarves came to be

"And you lose."

Varric leant back, surveying the cards spread out in front of Hawke. Fuck. And without noticing him cheating which meant he couldn't call foul.

"So I have. What do you want to hear?" He asked as he raises his empty mug in Nora's direction. She's a lot quicker than normal at filling it, seems the lure of a story gets good service in the Hanged Man today.

"Not a clue. I just wanted to hear you tell a story." Garrett twists his chair round so it was back to front and slumped down till he could rest his chin on the back. Beside him Merril bounced in her seat a little, she was always happy to hear new stories.

Varric spreads his hands to include the rest of the patrons in the bar tonight. "Any requests?"

"I dunno, mayhap sommat bout how Dwarves think the world came to be." Is the first response and Varric hums, waving away the rest of the suggestions. He's not in the mood for lewd which is what most of the shouted suggestions are.

He takes a gulp of ale, pleasantly impressed that it's the slightly better than shit stuff and stands up, waiting until the bar becomes quiet. And woe betide anyone who stumbles in loudly while he's telling a story. He's seen men chucked back out onto the street for disturbing his flow.

"Generations ago, as far back as any Shaper can remember from the memories, and then further back than that, the world came into being. It was a good place, strong in foundation and bright for the sun rose and set with a golden light, and at night the moon left everything silver. It was also bereft of life. Sky and Stone, being the firstborn of the world drifted together to speak. On the highest peak they looked over the world that was spread before them.

'It is... quiet.' Sky said.

'It is... barren.' Stone said.

They looked over the world again. Each going their own way to find out what was missing. Their looking took a long time, for they are beyond mortal life and time has no meaning for them. Eventually they came together again.

'I wish to create something to cover the surface of the world, so that I may see beauty when I look down upon the world.' Sky said.

Stone nodded, for that was a good idea.

'I wish to create light and warmth in the depths of the world, that I may see beauty even in the greatest depths.' Stone said.

Sky nodded, for that too was a good idea.

Apart they went, each working to create what they had envisioned.

Sky brought unto being grass to cover the barreness, flowers to give colour, trees to stretch up to the heavens. Even in the great oceans did Sky create beautiful things, for the ocean too was seen from above and great corals grew to cover the barreness. Then Sky created wind, that the air would move amongst the new creations and cause them to move and sway and the wind would whisper news from around the world. Sky was pleased with the work and returned to the highest peak.

Stone brought into being the heat in the darkest depths. He brought it up, tugging and teasing till the heat ran through the depths of the world. He called it magma and from it he created gems and metals. Then Stone created lyrium, that the bright stone would be a light in the darkness and illuminate the beauty that he had made and the lyrium would sing along the veins so the beauty could be found and viewed. Stone was pleased with the work and returned to the highest peak.

'It is done?' Sky asked.

Stone looked over the green valleys and frowned. 'Perhaps there could be... more?'

Sky looked again and nodded. 'Yes. There could.'

So Sky created animals to walk the lands and play amongst the flowers. Birds to live in the trees and play in the wind. And fish to fill the ocean and play amongst the coral. Stone looked upon the creatures Sky was creating and realised his lands were darker and harder to survive in. His creatures were fierce and clever for the depths of the world is a hard place to live. Sky nodded approvingly at them all, they would do well in the depths.

'I have done something you may not approve of.' Sky said one day, in the time that was many generations ago. Stone waited and Sky eventually called a creature to come to them. A great beast came, with wings that cast a shadow over the mountaintop as it hovered in place. 'I have called it a Drake and the wind is it's ally.'

'Mother called us?' The Drake said, it's voice a roar like a storm in the time when water freezes solid and the days seem colder.

Stone shook his head. 'I am not upset, for I too have done something similar.' And he called through the earth and a great beast of the depths came forth. 'Its blood is the lyrium so that it is forever of the stone beneath.'

'Father? Your Titan hears you.' The Titan said, it's voice like the tumbling of rocks down a mountainside.

Sky laughed. 'We are too alike. I was to ask you if I could name the eldest of the Drakes as lesser Gods beneath me? That they can rule the beasts I created so that I do not have to be everywhere at once.'

Stone too laughed. 'We are alike. I wished the same thing for my Titans. This pleases me that we should do this together.'

And so they were thus named and raised as Gods. It was many generations, more than can be counted before Sky came once more to the mountain. 'I am... bored.'

Stone nodded. Had all the deep places not been explored by now? He had nothing else left to find. 'Perhaps we should create something else? Something we could watch so we are not as bored, for the Drakes and the Titans are few.'

Sky thought on this, looking out over the green valleys with the great Drakes circling overhead. 'I will make something for the ground and the trees that is as intelligent as my winged children that roam the sky.'

Stone nodded slowly. 'I have not a new place to fill as you have, yet I wish to see if I can bring forth something to shape the beauty deep in the earth.'

So they went to work, creating that which they imagined.

'I hope you do not mind, for I taught them to listen for your singing stone.' Sky said once they were done.

Stone frowned, watching the new people Sky had created and eventually nodded. 'The song rises to them through the roots of the plants, through the trees, through the animals, the wind and the water. They draw upon the song I created in the depths and it will give them life.'

Sky smiled. 'Yes. it was a great thing you created.'

Stone smiled again, a little sadly. 'My creations will be too close to the song, for it is a powerful song that it might encompass the world. I made my peoples strong like the stone in the depths so that they will be able to resist it's call. It will give them life but also take it.'

Sky looked upon them and saw that this will be true. 'If they are to pass on unto death, then you should show them the secret to the song, that they may all remember, even those who come after.'

'I will do that.' Stone agreed. 'I will call them Dwarva. They will know me as their father and for as long as they are in the depths of the world I will guide them. I will give them the memory making that each generation will be a guide for the next.'

'That is well done.' Sky said. 'I will call mine Elvhen and I will create for them the strongest and wisest that they may look to as Gods to guide them. For they will only slowly have generations that will pass for they will not grow weary, only injury will kill them.'

Stone nodded. 'It will be so.'

And so it came to pass.

The first generation of Dwarva were created by Stone and their land was beneath the world in the deeps where the lyrium sings and if one goes down deep enough the Titans dwell. The Elvhen were placed in the green valleys and their strongest and wisest became the Evanuris and protected their people in the grass and the flowers and the trees that Sky had created, while above them they could occasionally see the great Drakes, soaring on the winds. The world was content for all was balanced and magic flowed through her, from the depths of the stone to the highest place the Drake can fly."

"Huh. Interesting." Hawke said, a contemplative look on his face.

"Is that really what Dwarves believe?"

"Maybe some of them do Daisy, that was just a story my mother taught me when I was young."

"Oh. It's just, some of it has the right names, but the rest isn't right at all." She said as she deftly stole what was left in Varrics mug.

"It's a story. Maybe it's got just enough truth in it that people keep telling it." Varric wasn't and had never been a Shaper. He wouldn't have a clue if it was all made up or was actually close to the truth.

"Oh I see. Like the story of the Golden Halla." Merrill nodded to herself.

Varric shared a glance with Garrett. Despite both of their curiousity they knew better than to ask. Neither of them would get any sleep if they got Merrill started on a story; she tended to ramble from the main plot and not return to it without prompting with alarming frequency.


	4. Curiousity killed the cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: nothing too graphic at all- but there is a reanimated beastie in here.

“So here we were, just minding our own business, and out pops this ugly motherfucker and demands we pay a toll to pass.”

Varric puts the mugs of ale down and gives Hawke a flat stare as he passes them out.

Hawke studiously ignores Varric and grabs his ale, “so yes, we of course dealt with them. You know, we rushed in, took the entire lot of bandits out, looted the cave and came home none the worst for wear. One handful of gold for our troubles please and thank you.”

Varric coughs.

Hawke glares.

“That is utter brontoshit,” Varric finally says. 

“You didn’t kill the bandits?” Merril asks curiously, a faint frown on her face. Because Hawke always kills the bandits, unless they’re not being very bandit-y. But that’s kind of rare, most bandits don’t join because they have brains that extend towards any sort of complicated plot. Stop and give us money is the usual limit of their intelligence.

“We did.” Varric reassures her, “it’s the part in the cave that somebody skipped over that’s the good tale.”

“Varric,” Hawke says, eyes narrowed as he glares over the rim of his mug, “don’t you even dare.”

Varric smirks and moves his chair back, out of kicking range of even long human legs. “So. The bandits are dead, there’s not a sound from inside or outside the cave except the usual shrieking of the gulls and the wing whipping through the grass. All was silent and still.

Hawke stands up from rooting through the bandits leaders pockets and in his hand is a key. Well, a key generally means a lock of some type and as we all know, our dear Garret cannot resist such temptation as a locked door or chest or, well, anything. Like a cat, he needs to know what’s on the other side. Anders is too busy making sure we’re not hiding wounds from him and Aveline is staring round as she does as if we’re about to be jumped by even more bandits.

So, given we found that key, we’re obviously going into the cave. Aveline stays outside to guard our backs and so we advance in, cautious in case we are about to be ambushed. All is silent. Nothing unusual so far. Bedrolls, a small chest of jerky and cheese, a cask of ale, a small trestle table and a few papers that had nothing of interest on them. How much Jack the bandit was being paid really doesn’t matter when Jack’s pay is now in Hawke’s pockets. Not like Jack will be spending it any time soon given Jack’s suffering a small case of dead outside.

Anyway, further in we go and there it is, one chest. Not too big, but certainly more than we want to haul back. Now this things is panelled in metal and has some big ass chains round it. That would perhaps indicate that whatever is inside would be better of staying inside. Does Garrett here listen to that?

Of course not. When does Hawke ever listen to his trusty dwarf?”

“I’ll listen to my trusty dwarf when I get a fucking trusty dwarf.” Hawke says, clearly resigned to his fate.

“Ouch. That hurts my friend, that hurts. So. Chest. Key. The big padlock opens with a click and Hawke pulls the chains back, then he reaches down to the front clasps, unlatching them with two loud thunk sounds. This is it, I think to myself, keeping my crossbow ready, who knows what might be in there.

Hawke reaches out, lifting the lid with an eager expression, bending over it a little to better see the contents in the dim light. Next thing I know he’s flailing backwards and cursing with something attached to his chest. And all I can hear is this, ‘get it off, get it off, get it off’ in a high pitch panic as he trips over a bedroll, smashes into the barrel of ale and ends up flat on his back, his st-weapon rolling out of his grasp as he grips whatever is attacking him and holds up…

A cat? Yep, moving closer I can see it is a cat, four paws, tail, two, well, one and a half ears, glowing purple eyes and patchy black fur… and actually... I could see bits of cat you shouldn’t normally see. More like this was a cat. Definitely past tense. 

Hawke’s there, bellowing for one of us to kill the demon, its trying to eat his soul and some such and still flailing round as this cat latches onto his bracer and tries to claw its way closer to him. Of course, I know shit about cats, especially deceased but still moving cats and well, it’s kinda cute, in a, ‘you can see it’s beating heart if you look between the ribs at the right angle’, sort of way.

Anders here though, he’s not phased in the least, he just swoops in, scruffs the little beast and hauls it up into his arms where it snuggles in. Leaving Garrett right where he is, soaked in ale and with cheese caught in his hair.”

“It’s cute.” Anders says mildly.

“It’s evil.” Hawke mutters, shooting Anders a glare that’s cowed Qunari.

The healer just slow blinks and looks down at his coat. “You’re not evil are you Ser-Pounced-A-Lot? No you’re not. Look Hawke, she’s just a cute and cuddly animated kitty and I’ve made sure all the spells are nicely anchored she won’t fall apart, yes I have.”

“Mrrrrrow.” His coat says, a little black, white and orange splotched head poking out inquisitively. It certainly looks a lot better now it’s been cleaned up, but there’s still the fact that you can see through its ribs on one side to get past before one could call it cute.

Hawke shudders.

Varric pulls his chair back to the table and pats him on the back. “There there, it could be worse.”

“How? How could it be worse?”

Varric opens his mouth to answer before looking at the reanimated cat happily bathing what remains of its ear and reconsiders what he was going to say. “I’ll think of something later.”


End file.
